The Chinese put rings round your throat so they can steal fish you’ve caught by your own quickness— today in the distance your zig-zag neck and beak   become an eyelash, a black arc slipping the grey wave.    When you’re hungry, too light to dive,         you swallow pebbles for weight.   Last summer, on the Lizard, five of you made the shape of a star, dropped in formation,   cutting the sea as if it were paper, you, characters in an Oriental language,   writing of the heft of the water you part, the cost of the fish you…